SOPRANOS: The Whack Party
by Dan Bivens
Summary: JUST FOR FUN: What would happen if a real New Jersey based Mafia boss sent his soldiers to finally whack those who had pretended for six seasons? CAUTION: STRONG MATURE LANGUAGE & VIOLENCE!
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The huge Hi-Def plasma screen attached so solidly to the basic beige wall of the vast living room suddenly departed from the anemic comedy currently insulting the intelligence of millions even as the always attention-attracting words "Special Bulletin" captured the collective attentions of TV viewers this morose Monday night…

"We interrupt current programming to bring you this special bulletin released by the FBI in conjunction with California law enforcement affiliates," said the stony-faced, yet still-handsome, anchorman associated with one of several nationally-known reporter programs in regards to an incident recently occurring on the other side of the country. "Just one day after the wrap of the final episode of the long-running HBO series called, The Sopranos, several lead actors, as well as some supporting, have been found murdered by what has been unofficially referenced as 'gangland killings'. So far, no suspects have been arrested however…"

The word Mute promptly appeared in the lower corner of the incredibly crystal clear confines of the attached-to-wall plasma screen at the remote control command of a chunky, full-faced, middle-aged man, just starting to lose once thick black hair, seated on side of his plush sofa. Heaving a heavy sigh of tense frustration that such had become news so surprisingly soon.

In this New Jersey Boss' not-so-humble assumption, his numerous Soldiers should've never allowed their bloody labors, on this singularly special, to him, Monday night to ever become police, as well as public, comprehension.

"Fuckin' idiots," said the man with the perpetually half-closed dark-brown eyes while letting a tense wheeze whistle forth via his prominent pug nose sitting in the middle of a bulldog visage of violent intent.

Then, flipping open his ever-present, untraceable-by-FBI cellphone, which he would ditch the very next day and purchase, anonymously, yet another with an entirely new number, the New Jersey Boss, no relation to Bruce Springsteen!, made immediate contact with one of his most trusted Lieutenants.

"Yeah," the voice harshly said even as the sound of someone's screams could be easily detected in the not-so-distant background.

"I thought I told youse guys to finish this and not attract any attention," snarled the Boss with a cross of accents belonging to both New York City as well as New Jersey. "They've already got the first fuckin' jobs you guys did on the fuckin' news. What the hell's goin' on out there in California?"

"Don't worry, Skipper," the equally insidious voice said as the whispered gunshot was heard over the Boss' cell to swiftly silence someone's screams. "We'll be outta here before the cops can figure all this out."

"Youse fuckin' well better be," the Boss angrily growled, "'cause I've been waitin' years to pay these motherfuckers back for all the shit they've been spreadin' about me and mine. So finish up or else I'll have youse whacked!"

With that, the casually-dressed Boss thumbed the red End button on his soon-to-be-replaced cell and tossed it exasperatedly onto the top of his imported-from-Italy table situated in the center of the lavishly, if not garishly, embellished living room within a posh mansion situated on the outskirts of the New Jersey shores.

"Bastardi della spia," he swore in the Italian not only he, but his whole Family, heard and spoke all of their criminal lives, before recalling how this Night of Blood began.

Or as one would've referred to it in blessed Italiano: Notte di Anima…

END OF CHAPTER 1


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

"Well, guys, that's the end of the series," David Chase, creator/writer of The Sopranos, looking every inch the sleepy-eyed, gray-haired Mafioso that he so expertly realized via the reputedly real Family. "I don't know about any of you, but it almost brings tears to my eyes that, after six seasons together, we're all saying good-bye to some of our favorite Italian characters. Li saluto tutti."

At that, everyone, cast and crew alike, lifted their glasses of Dom Perignon, 1999 vintage, in a centuries-old salute to one and all, simultaneously saying, "Saluto!", before drinking down the delicious bubbly beverage so intrinsically linked to such celebrations.

"Here's to the best bunch'a assholes I've ever had the pleasure of workin' with," James Gandolfini, the actor who'd so perfectly portrayed the undisputed head of a New Jersey-based Mob, while refilling his glass in order to complete the uncustomary toast with a seldom-seen smile on his own bulldog-like countenance framed by thinning black hair.

Having already refilled their own glasses with the delicious champagne, one and all lifted them, again, and chimed in, "Here, here!", just before drinking it down.

Some, like Edie Falco, the ever-vexed spouse of the husky actor who'd portrayed her philandering, and murdering, husband for so many years, could scarcely contain the tears at their parting, while slightly sobbing, "I'd just like to tell you all…each and every one…that this has been the greatest years of my life as an actor. God bless you all and good luck."

Lorraine Bracco, much like the lovely lady psychiatrist she played so perfectly, echoed the earnest sentiment, "I know how you feel, Edie, I can't believe this beautifully played-out tragedy has reached the end. I'll remember you all for the rest of my life."

Michael Imperioli, he of the uni-brow and big nose, sniffled slightly while smilingly saying, "Even though I plan on spendin' a lot more time behind the camera, I'll still never forget you guys. Hopefully, we'll all get to work together again someday soon."

"Not too soon, I hope," quipped Dominic Chianese, who played the role of Uncle Jun so scarily convincingly, "I've been lookin' forward to some serious rest for a long while. Maybe play some golf or just sleep a lot. Who the fuck knows?"

A spattering of laughter, both polite as well as loving, spread itself through the tight-knit gathering as more expensive champagne made its way into glasses during this wrap party get-together.

Even as Drea de Matteo, the undeniably beautiful and especially sensuous, though supposedly dead, as far as the TV show was concerned, Adriana, fought back feelings of distinct sadness mixed impossibly with a performer's pride. She said her private farewells to other equally killed-off actors, such as Joseph R. Gannascoli, who so convincingly played the homosexual hitman, and even the man the world would always call "Big Pussy", Vincent Pastore…

"I'm gonna miss you mugs," said a one-time petty criminal-turned-actor, Tony Sirico, even as he, too, seemed on the edge of a mini-emotional meltdown, even as the group gradually split into mini-groups of glad-to-be-done-yet-teary-eyed actors wordlessly bidding adieu to the characters they had long been.

Jamie-Lynn DiScala said her good-byes to TV brother Robert Iler; Federico Castelluccio did the same with Max Casella; Carl Capotorto had joined Ray Abruzzo and David Proval; Frank Pellegrino stood to one side with Frank Pando, one actor-portrayed-agent to another; not to mention the "Big Fish" of the six-season series.

Such supremely important pundits of James Gandolfini's main man character: Steve Van Zandt, wearing his trademark "do-rag" over a head that normally sported a thick, slicked-back "made-guy" wig, along with the other primary players as well as the well-known, as both a director and an actor, Peter Bogdanovich; not to mention the popular likes of Joe Pantoliano, black beret perched atop hairless head, and Steve Buscemi, he of innumerable, and memorable, movie roles…

And so on and so on, into this most momentous night, until, at last, the cast would separate in order to head off to various California-located, at least during final filming, dwellings. It would be not too long after that those murderous men sent across the country, from East Coast to West Coast, would literally execute the long-standing demands of their Boss back on the New Jersey shores.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

"Who the flyin' fuck…?"

By the time Tony Sirico, tired and still a little plastered, angrily answered the door, snarling, "Do you cocksuckers know what fuckin' time it is? Jesus H. Fuckin' Christ!"

Though he had, many years before The Sopranos, been on the inside of a cell and knew full well what such could do to those so incarcerated, nothing could prepare him for the treatment he would undergo at the gloved hands of all-too-real criminal-types in too-casual clothing wearing, the Soldier's at least, leather coats.

"What the fuck is this? Who the fuck are you guys? What the fuck do ya want?"

"It sure as hell ain't no autograph," snarled the Boss' better-dressed Lieutenant in charge of the Soldiers sent West, then with insulting emphasis, "'Paulie'."

"Time to pay the piper," one of the Soldiers said with a sadistic sneer while pulling a silencer-equipped stainless steel Smith-and-Wesson .45, even as another forced a defiant criminal-turned-actor to his knees. "Hands behind yer fuckin' head!"

"Fuck you!" said the man known to the world as Paulie "Walnuts" Gualtieri on the hit HBO show sporting the purposely grayed hair, looking like folded-back wings, that fit so perfectly into the coifed mien millions would forever relate to the TV thug.

"Look, asshole," said the Family Lieutenant overlooking the operation, "this ain't no scripted shit! And this ain't no Punk'd episode either! This if for fuckin' real!"

"Like I give a shit!" shouted a red-faced with rage Tony Sirico, while punctuating his point with well-directed spittle sent straight up into the Lieutenant's ludicrously squarish features. "Now go fuck yer mother!"

Taking his silken handkerchief from the front breast pocket of the only cloth coat, tailor-made, being worn by the ghoulish group of cold-blooded killers, the Lieutenant politely wiped away said spittle while giving a wordless nod to the Soldier with the silencer-equipped .45.

"Last call, creep," snidely sniggered the thuggish gunman even as two whisper-quiet gunshots sounded…

Pft! Pft!

…utterly obliterating the brain within the famous-faced, and haired, head, along with much of said head, to drop the brave actor into a dead heap upon the stained with blood, bone, and brain matter carpeting.

"Let's go," said the Lieutenant even as the Soldiers under him proceeded swiftly out the door. "We ain't exactly got all night."

END OF CHAPTER 2


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Next stop…

Michael Imperioli was still very much up and not at all under-the-influence, not now!, and was working on a pet directorial project he'd been developing since before the finale of the long-running Sopranos. Which the slim man, who'd made Christopher Moltisanti, the noisome nephew of Mr. Big himself, Anthony Soprano, leap to TV Life, had made more than a little money as well as, much more importantly, Hollywood hook-ups.

Now, for some strange reason, Michael didn't seem at all surprised at the sound of heavy knocking at his door.

"Comin'!"

Michael stalked toward the door, throwing open its locks with the ease of someone expecting past-midnight company, only to end up looking down the silencer-equipped business end of a stainless steel Smith-and-Wesson. This one belonging to another of the thuggish Soldiers wearing gloves and leather coats.

"Holy Jesus…!" said a startled Michael Imperioli as he lifted his hands in standard surrender as the hoods swiftly swept in to close the door in their wicked wake. "Wh-what is this?"

"What the fuck do you think it is, ya dumb shit?" snarled the Soldier with the similar Smith-and-Wesson .45 that had be used by the first on a defiant-to-the-end Tony Sirico. "Now get down on yer fuckin' knees!"

"What?" Michael managed amid mind-numbing fear even as this Soldier, not nearly as patient as the first, unleashed two silenced shots…

Pft! Pft!

"Gyiiiiii!"

…which swiftly shattered both knees in order to send the actor down in an agony that easily chased away bewilderment.

"What the fuck…? You cocksuckers!"

"You did so good playin' at being a goodfella," the Lieutenant commented coldly while walking around the suddenly crippled, bleeding-out character actor. "Now it's time to pay up like one."

"Pay up? What d'ya want? Fuckin' money? Motherfuckers!"

The Lieutenant of the real New Jersey-based Family was genuinely impressed by Michael Imperioli's fearlessness in the face of certain death.

Like Tony Sirico, this person who'd spent years acting like a Mafioso seemed to carry the self-same testicular fortitude as his character Christopher Moltisanti.

"Avete ottenuto alcune sfere grandi, il mio amico," said the Lieutenant to his smirking Soldiers in Italian to which they grinned and nodded.

Fully understanding what had been said, Michael, forcing such through the palpitating pain from dual-destroyed knees, replied in kind, "Più grande di voi hanno ottenuto, bastardo!"

After delivering a tooth-rattling backhanded blow to the side of the actor's hawkish, yet somehow handsome, face, sending streamers of dark-red blood flying out the opposite side, the well-dressed Lieutenant straightened his expensive tie while saying, "I guarantee you, my friend, that my balls are definitely bigger. But you are an honorable man. A brave man. Your death, like Tony's before you this night, shall be quick. Una morte rapida e merciful."

A quick, curt nod caused the Soldier-in-question to promptly take aim at Michael's uni-brow forehead, even as the enraged actor spat, "I'll wait for you in Hell and shove that fuckin' gun up your Goddamn asshole! You cocksuckin' mother--!"

Pft! Pft!

Thud!

"C'mon," said the Lieutenant, so dutifully fulfilling his Boss' cold-blooded orders, even as he led the rest straight out the door. "A few more like this and we'll be back in Jersey before the fuckin' sun comes up."

END OF CHAPTER 3


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

In the hours that swiftly pass, the Family's Soldiers, led by the Family's Lieutenant, had paid past-midnight "social calls" on other targeted cast members to deliver such silenced homicide.

Steve Van Zandt, who, like Tony and Michael, refused to simply surrender himself in any manner other than he would as his character, Silvio Dante, had such assassination been scripted on the finalized Cable-TV show.

"Go ahead, ya cocksuckers, ya ain't got the stones to give me a fuckin' gun or I swear to fuckin' God I'd…!"

Pft! Pft!

Thud!

Dominic Chianese proved himself to be a scrapper, despite his advanced age.

"Yeah, ya heard me, motherfuckers! You can take that fuckin' gun and stick up yer tight asses after I…!"

Pft! Pft!

Thud!

Steve Schirripa showed far more bravery than his less-than-heroic Mafia character of Bobby "Bacala" Baccalieri…

"You guys are bigger fuckin' pussies than I thought you'd be!"

Pft! Pft!

Thud!

Such would also be the case with the rest visited during this Night of Blood, led by the dapper Lieutenant and remotely orchestrated by the balding bulldog-like Boss…

Pft! Pft!

Thud!

Vincent Pastore proved to not be a "Big Pussy" in the blood-soaked end.

Pft! Pft!

Thud!

Frank Vincent was every bit as tough a son-of-a-bitch as his vicious characterization of Phil Leotardo.

Pft! Pft!

Thud!

Vincent Curatola was as venom-spewing an ass-kicker as Johnny "Sack" Sacrimoni before…

Pft! Pft!

Thud!

Ray Abruzzo, David Proval, John Fiore, Al Sapienza…

Pft! Pft!, Pft! Pft!, Pft! Pft!, Pft! Pft!

Thud!, Thud!, Thud!, Thud!

…and if these thugs ever believed that Joseph R. Gannascoli was really an _omosessuale_…

Pft! Pft!

Thud!

…forget about it!

Clinging to the time-honored Mafioso system, from Sicily to New Jersey, all the women were allowed to continue their post-Sopranos lives as well as two male actors, Joe Pantoliano and Steve Buscemi, who were overlooked due to their high-profile pre-Sopranos careers.

Especially so since the Boss had stated, several times, that he truly respected them for roles played before, during, and after what he'd otherwise written off as a severo insulto to the real Family of New Jersey.

As to David Chase, his was the last, carried out at the same time as the unexpected Special Bulletin seen by the Boss in his New Jersey home…

"Gaaaarrrrrggggg!"

Pft!

"Don't worry, Skipper," the equally insidious voice had said as the last whispered gunshot was no doubt heard over the Boss' cell in order to quickly silence the creator/writer's screams. "We'll be outta here before the cops can figure all this out."

Leaving the last shot-to-death body behind, the Lieutenant and the Soldiers under his direct control flew back to New Jersey, via previously-arranged private plane, with a very special surprise for the Boss. One that just might make all the aggravation about too-soon-discovered dead bodies disappear.

So the Lieutenant hoped. Otherwise…

END OF CHAPTER 4


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE/CONCLUSION

The Boss was busy brewing up yet another carafe of mid-morning coffee when his most loyal Mafioso Soldiers and Lieutenant entered through his basement door, just in case his sprawling mansion was under surveillance by the Feds again.

"We're back, Boss," said the Lieutenant with little or no trepidation as he and the Soldiers ushered a sedated ospite di sorpresa into the surprisingly spotless kitchen of the thrice-divorced Godfather. "And we brought ya a little somethin'."

"Yeah?" the unexpectedly cantankerous New Jersey Boss said as he turned, after pouring himself another mug of hot, black coffee, to see someone he certainly hadn't expected so soon after the Notte di Anima. "What the fuck…?"

His always sleepy eyes more glazed than the expensive champagne at the wrap party could've caused, only now regaining at least a little of his previous alacrity prior to being set upon by true thugs at which he had only pretended for six straight seasons…

"Where…where the fuck am I? Who the fuck are you people?" said the kidnapped-instead-of-killed actor even as his eyes beheld a strangely familiar-looking individual.

"Well, well, well," said the Boss with an unexpected smirk, telling the Lieutenant and the Soldiers that they wouldn't be facing summary execution for, in essence, disobeying someone whose Word was most definitely Law. "Mr. James fuckin' Gandolfini…chi potrebbe crederlo mai? Eh? Ha, ha, hahaha!"

Finally finding his own feet supporting his somewhat thickset Self, his bulldog-like, balding features staring straight into one that looked impossibly similar as realization slowly settled into his previously sedated mind.

"Wait a motherfuckin' minute…"

"Tell me, Mr. Gandolfini," began the still-smirking Boss even as he stuck a cigar in his mouth and ignited its blunt end, "how would you like me to…make you an offer ya can't refuse? Huh? Hahaha, ha, ha!"

"Oh, fuck…"

END


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